Photographic Memory
by TrebleMaker
Summary: It's Halloween time at Stanford and Sam has had about enough of the ghost stories.  However, when one turns out to be more than just some stupid rumor, the younger Winchester is pulled back into a life he thought he had left for good.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or anything else from Kripke's world. I simply like to play with his toys from time to time. Don't sue me!

**A/N:** This story is written for Zara Zee who played the game of snaps and won. She asked for a Stanford era Sam and a story to explain why he didn't want to hunt anymore. I hope she enjoys it.

* * *

It started off as rumors, but he had brushed them off as the usual myths and urban legends that often floated through the freshman populace at any given college campus, especially now that Halloween was right around the corner.

Speaking of Halloween, that was one holiday that he could definitely do without.

Maybe it was because he had never dressed up and plunged himself into the candy induced haze as a child or maybe it had something to do with the drastic increase in supernatural phenomena on the date itself that _always _resulted in more hunting. Whatever the cause, Sam Winchester absolutely hated Halloween.

Unfortunately, his distaste for the creepy celebration had earned him many nicknames, most of which made Sam raise his eyebrows in annoyance or huff indignantly. However, if anyone knew - actually _understood_ - the rituals behind the day…

He knew they'd never really get it, but that was exactly what he had wanted, wasn't it? He had chosen this life, the normalcy and tedium of day to day living. Sure, sometimes he missed the adrenaline rush of tracking down something that wasn't supposed to exist, but he would take pushing his pencil across a paper to fearing it was his last night on earth any day.

That being said, Sam hadn't jumped even once when he had heard the newest "spooky" ghost story going around campus for the year, earning himself more than his fair share of practical jokes and scares that did little more than make him shake his head and walk away.

Truth be told, Sam didn't scare very easily in general, not with the upbringing he had had. But that wasn't the kind of information he shared with his new friends. In fact, Sam was reluctant to share too much of anything with the company he kept, especially when it came to his family. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his older brother and father. Sam felt quite the contrary. However, he also knew that the less that was known about them, the better. It was the Hunter's Creed.

Soon, a few days passed and the whispered warnings floating from person to person soon disappeared under the heavy clutter of papers, tests and the usual college stress. Sam had struggled with it his first year, but found himself welcoming the burden as his second year got under way. It meant that he was that much closer to being completely normal. It meant that he was that much closer to living life on his terms.

After about three days, however, murmurs began to resurface and Sam ignored the hairs that were rising on the back of his neck to the best of his abilities. It was hard to do given the new circumstances that came with the tale this time. Apparently, a few women had been found scratched, bruised and shaken to the point of near nervous breakdowns. He rationalized the event, ignoring the nagging sensation in his gut that something more was hiding under the surface.

Statistically speaking, Palo Alto was a relatively safe city, but it wasn't completely crime free. This whole situation was probably nothing more than some psycho out there with a fetish for a pretty face and a little rough play.

Sam chewed at his nail to occupy his mind as it filled with violent worst case scenarios. Each one was just a little worse than the one before it and every one included _her._

Yes, Brady had introduced him to a pretty little thing that had his tongue playing twister whenever he tried to speak. Of course, that was only after his mind could finally pull something from the blank slate between his ears to start the conversation. She was beautiful with a genuine smile and blonde curly hair that just begged to be touched. But she was also more than that too.

She was driven, proud and passionate about her studies, although Sam would be the first to admit that he didn't remember her major because he had been more focused on not making a fool of himself when she had finally told him what it was.

But she was even more than that; she personified a certain warmth that reminded him of the home life he had craved since he was a child. She was patient too, managing to calm Sam when the overwhelming stress of his schoolwork started to wear him down.

Sam was smitten with her. Jessica…something. He'd have to remember to find out her last name once he finally worked up the courage to ask her out. It was clear that she was partial to him as well, but the butterflies that worked through his system made it hard to open his mouth and ask her to dinner.

However, it was only two days later when they both sat at a cozy little table in the corner of a mom and pop style coffee shop just off campus. In the dimly lit café, they sat drinking in each other's presence while their lattes cooled in their hands until the recognizable cadence of the evening news broke the story.

A woman had finally been found dead.

Sam could no longer ignore the chill that ran down his spine or the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He had walked her home then, her anxiety and fear evident in the little tremors that ran through her body. He had offered to stay with her once they reached her place, but she had blushed and said she would be fine.

He had reluctantly left and when he'd think about it later, he'd never be sure if it was because he wanted to spend time with her or if he wanted to protect her. However, the end result was the same. He knew then and there that he wanted to be with her and all that it entailed.

His mind was slowly beginning to revert back to his former life as he walked across campus and back to his room. Little bits of information that seemed like just another creep on the prowl suddenly pulling itself into a pattern that seemed like something he probably knew how to stop.

He pushed it away with a bit of effort. After all, he had chosen to go to college to get some sense of normalcy back into his life. If it did happen to be something supernatural, there were countless hunters in the area that would be on this in no time.

However, curiosity got the best of him and by 10 o'clock that same night, he was hacking into police reports and finding names. He grimaced when he finally found the most recent attack. The victim hadn't been a college student at Stanford, but Sam recognized her as a regular attendee of university events.

Her name was Peggy Stevens, a petite woman with a loving, carefree spirit that always had a smile on her face. She was the campus photographer, capturing smiles and good cheer wherever she went. Apparently, that wouldn't be happening anymore.

Sam wasn't spurred into action until another face splashed its way across TV screens on the 11 o'clock news later that night. Another face, definitely a student Sam recognized from one of his classes, had been found dead in the same place as Peggy. The police were baffled; each woman was in good health, but for some reason their bodies had just given out on them.

That's when Sam Winchester finally started crawling the web for more information. His mind was completely focused in a way that it hadn't been in a little over a year. Yes, Sam was slowly letting his hunter's instincts take control.

It took a substantial amount of hacking for him to find anything else of value, but he was starting to compose a neat little list before he gave himself a break to look it over. Five other names had popped up in police blotters throughout the entire ordeal, all of which lived on or around the Stanford campus.

So, Sam did what any solid thinking hunter would have done in his position…

He had played it smooth, appearing outside of classrooms or at club functions he ordinarily wouldn't have attended to get a moment or two with the women that had survived their attack. The more information Sam pulled in, the more he prayed the dots wouldn't form a picture.

However, the next night a string of colorful curses left his mouth in a whispered rush as the Rorschach image indeed started to make itself into a high contrast portrait.

He hadn't thought any of the women had a common tie at first; then again, that might have been wishful thinking on his part. There was no ethnic preference, no age similarities and certainly no feature that was the same from woman to woman. However, with a little more digging, Sam was able to find one well hidden, common thread.

They had all been photographers.

Pieces had started falling into place from there. Actually, it was more like hunches feeding his logic at this point, but he knew he was rusty and took what he could get.

After a grueling search, he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and allowed the information to process. The basis for this one was exceedingly simple. It was an ancient tradition followed by many of the older races throughout the world. Australian aborigines, the Mayans and even Native Americans counted themselves among the practitioners. They wouldn't allow it - the pictures and photography. They firmly believed that photographs, digital or conventional, could steal one's soul.

It was a revelation which made Sam put on his old boots and wipe the dust off of the old trunk he had shoved into the back corner under his bed. He had hoped he could avoid this here, but it was obvious that whatever was happening was getting out of control. The quicker a hunter got on the case, the sooner the deaths would stop. Unfortunately, Sam knew that he was the closest hunter in the area.

He checked twice to make sure Brady was asleep before he crept out of his bed and pulled on his Stanford sweatshirt. Tonight was the night that this creep went down. He swore it with every fiber of his being as witness. He would get rid of this thing before it harmed anyone else.

* * *

A shiver ran through his body, despite the sweatshirt he wore to brace himself against the cold. With hands in his pockets, Sam gazed around warily; he may have been rusty, but he knew when to pay attention to the warning bells that pealed loudly in his head. Even after a careful inspection of the street, however, he couldn't shake his paranoia.

Heavy footsteps ricocheted from the brick walls around him, but he knew the steel toe in his shoes would offer him some sort of protection if he needed it. Unfortunately, the cumbersome shoes were rapidly becoming a decision he regretted. His sneakers would have allowed him to jog, effectively avoiding unwanted attention as well as assisting him in his sudden desire to get to his destination as quickly as possible.

He was mentally berating himself and his decision when the noise first assaulted his ears.

A familiar growl began to gently roll through the stillness of the night and Sam did a double take as the car rounded the corner ahead of him. A beautiful, black muscle car rolled into view and Sam's heart began to pound in anticipation. He immediately recognized the purr, the sleek lines of the car's body and if he strained, he could almost swear that he heard AC/DC blasting away inside.

However, as the '67 Chevy Impala pulled past, he was both relieved and disappointed to see that the plates on vehicle didn't match the one he had committed to memory. He smiled sadly, recognizing the colors of the plate from his home state and found himself idly playing with the phone in his pocket.

It took him a moment to realize what he was doing, but by then the car was nothing more than a blur of reflected streetlight glare as it rounded another corner and pulled out of sight. However, it was in that moment that a sudden searing heat associated with anger flared through his system.

_I can handle this,_ he thought to himself as he pulled his hand from the cloth confines and continued forward.

He hadn't seen Dean in over a year and Sam would be the first to admit that it infuriated him. Sure, he had been the one to ditch, but they had still kept in touch at first; the weekly phone calls became an after midnight ritual once the week of studying was done for Sam.

The conversations went on more or less like a well practiced dance. They laughed and exchanged stories, Sam doing his best to ignore the gasps and muffled groans of pain that echoed through the phone's speaker while Dean did his best to keep the sounds in check.

A pang of guilt soured his stomach, effectively clearing out all the pent up anger at their current lack of communication. If he had been there, Dean probably wouldn't have gotten hurt. If he had been there, Dean probably…

"Would have pushed me out of harm's way anyways," Sam muttered to himself with a definite note of frustration. He shook his head, bits of moisture shaking loose from his hair and sparkling in the yellow glow of the streetlights.

It was bittersweet living the life he had established for himself and Sam wasn't above admitting that he missed his older brother terribly. Despite never having four walls and a roof growing up, Sam had battled homesickness at first, the tension easing when he talked to Dean.

What he wouldn't give to see him now - to be able to see for himself that he was alive and well. Sam knew, of course, how to look for signs of him - the grave desecrations and police reports of strange occurrences - but to see him with his own eyes would've been an immense relief.

The tinny clanking of an empty soda can rattling down the street pulled Sam back to the present. He scanned his surroundings carefully, only allowing his thoughts to drift again after he was certain he wasn't in any immediate danger.

Yes, Sam missed his brother, but it still stung to think that Dean hadn't even tried to call him in a little over six months. Granted, Sam hadn't exactly enjoyed their last conversation. It had rapidly turned into a recruitment style call - all pleasantries until Sam heard the familiar gruff tone in the background and then his brother's voice had changed completely.

But Sam wouldn't go back now; he couldn't. As much as he loved his family, he couldn't bring himself to be one of his father's little soldiers again; his pride forbid it. He knew, especially after tasting freedom for so long, that he couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore either. He certainly hadn't been in the hunt for the glory, but it was disheartening to think that they risked their lives to hunt down the _things_ that plagued people without so much as a thank you before they moved onto the next town in a blur of confusion and secrecy.

Somewhere in his head, Sam registered the hypocrisy of his current situation and clenched his jaw in response. What he was doing now, he argued with himself, was not the same thing. Yes, he was _hunting_ but he wasn't going to run away once the job was done. He'd stay put and protect his new home.

A shiver ran through him, drawing him away from his thoughts once more as the fine mist that hung in the air clung to his hair and clothes. He fought the urge to pull the hood of his sweatshirt over his head knowing that it would do little more than make him look suspicious. He needed to stay off the radar. He needed to blend in.

With a few more heavy steps, Sam approached his target - the old abandoned movie theater. Spray paint of practically every shade and color adorned the building, a testament to how long the building had gone without proper patronage. Even the marquee above the doors had seen better days. There were no letters spelling out names and theater numbers. In fact, even the white plastic background was out of sorts, heavily stained with age and inclement weather.

Sam glanced around somberly, toeing the sidewalk as he did. This place looked like any other run of the mill building that had been condemned. However, this building and, to be more precise, this _spot_ on the sidewalk was anything but ordinary.

With a slow inhale, he tried to process exactly what kind of danger he was probably placing himself in. After all, this was where each woman had been found, including the victims that hadn't escaped their ultimate fate in time. There was no way this could continue. Sam had to put a stop to it now.

His heart pounded away in his chest as he approached the entrance to the building. The doors looked almost pristine, except for a few dings and scratches that glinted if the light hit them just the right way.

As Sam approached, he noted with resignation that there was a thick chain wrapped between the door handles - one with no lock on it. All at once, a weight settled over him, one that he hadn't felt for years. If this chain had been linked together and welded into one continuous loop, there was no way he'd be able to get inside without detection. His right hand immediately ran through his hair, a subconscious gesture that had stayed with him from his childhood, as his free hand reached for the chain.

The chains clinked softly as his fingers brushed against them and after a few prods, it slipped from the door handle. Instinctively, Sam's hands dove for the metal links, but he was unable to stop them before they hit the cement sidewalk and shattered the still of the night.

Sam froze, his body ready to snap with anxiety as the night around him suddenly crystallized with clarity. He turned slowly, fearing he would be able to hear himself moving. He blinked, the silence pressing in on him from all sides, as he strained to see anyone or anything that had probably heard him at this point.

Even though he only saw the drizzle that clung to the air and glazed his surroundings, he still couldn't shake the overwhelming sensation that someone or something had heard him.

Cautiously, Sam turned his attention back to the front entrance and grasped the cool metal handle. The door groaned lowly as he tugged it open, but he did little more than cringe at the sound this time. He knew it was too late to go completely unnoticed. Sam slipped inside the dark confines of the building and pushed the door closed behind him; it slid seamlessly back into place without so much as a sigh.

Sam chuckled bitterly at the door's quiet acquiescence while he waited for his eyes to adjust. He was completely engulfed in darkness, a harsh reality that made him fight the urge to blink furiously to adjust to the gloom. That was a lesson Sam had learned the hard way when he had first started hunting. If it hadn't been for Dean, Sam probably would've suffered more than just the contusions to his chest and the fractured ribs.

Harsh words echoed through his memories as his father chewed him out for his carelessness. Looking back, Sam knew that his father hadn't actually been angry with him that night. He had been scared - terrified.

John Winchester had nearly lost his youngest son that night.

The atonal sound of water leaking from the ceiling drew Sam's mind's ears to what he should have been listening for in the first place. Mentally berating himself, Sam tried to stretch his awareness as indistinguishable objects started to form in front of his eyes. He knew he could rely on his other senses for the time being; however, Sam was nearly reeling with the overload of information his brain was trying to process.

The pungent aroma of mildew mixed with the damp air Sam had managed to drag in with him wasn't helping that much either. It wasn't that unlike the smell of Bonesy - the golden retriever he had called his own for a whole two weeks - after getting caught in the rain and yet it was far more acrid. Unfortunately, it left a bitter taste in his mouth, even with the steady breaths in and out through his nose.

He chanced a few steps forward, the soles of his boots scuffing the ground beneath his feet as well as crunching over a few things Sam was pretty sure he didn't want to identify. Somewhere ahead, he registered the familiar sound of traffic driving by an emergency exit.

_I probably could've gotten in that way too,_ he thought to himself with some remorse.

His eyes slowly began to adjust to the darkness, but even without his vision, Sam would've known he was approaching a wall. The air seemed to swirl in place, a subtle contrast to the air moving near the doors he had walked through moments ago. His hand flitted across the surface of the poster before his eyes had a chance to see it, but once he did he smirked. Of course he would find a poster for _Shutter_ in a theater haunted by a spirit ensnared in a photograph.

At least, he hoped it was as simple as a spirit still bound to this plane of existence.

Sam continued slowly, papers and various debris making the floor a bit of a hazard even though his eyes had adjusted fairly well. His hand skirted the rounded wall of the theater lobby as he walked, ensuring that he wasn't simply walking in circles and getting himself lost.

His hand flew to his face, shielding his eyes from a sliver of light that fell into his eyes. He cussed under his breath and squinted through the shadow created by his hand. What he saw left him momentarily baffled.

One of the theaters was in use.

Without hesitation, Sam charged into the theater. His heart pounded away in his ears as he sprinted, the wall to his left growing shorter following the rows of stadium style seats. He was still running when he first saw the screen.

There was a woman and not just any woman. One Sam knew from the football games and even the concerts he had attended on campus.

"Oh, God," he huffed, sprinting slowing to a jog. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her vacant expression, even as his jog became more of a walk and finally he stood facing the screen in shock behind the last row of seats. His words were breathy when he managed to find his voice.

"Peggy."

Milliseconds after the words left his mouth, Sam noticed others wandering aimlessly in the darkness somewhere behind the woman he recognized. His eyes widened as he began to count them. The panic that began to zip along his nerves came only after his tally entered the 20s and Sam realized he was in way over his head.

He was groping for his phone, eyes still glued to the figures milling about absently, when the figure crept into the theater. Had Sam been paying attention, he would have seen the shadow as it slithered towards him, twisting and warping as it moved. He would have felt the sharp drop in temperature as the creature slid into the room and stalked towards him soundlessly.

Sam's phone chirped away at his ear, competing for attention over the steady rhythm of his heart. Even if his ears weren't otherwise preoccupied, he never would have heard the thing behind him as it lifted something dark and metallic from the ground.

The last thing Sam saw was the vacant stare of Peggy Stevens as she turned to look at him before something heavy and cold cracked against the side of his skull. As he slumped to his knees, eyes blurry and unfocused, he struggled to face his attacker which stretched and warped before his eyes and made his stomach churn.

As Sam's eyes fluttered and finally closed, he faintly registered a familiar, comforting voice somewhere just beyond his head.

"_Hey, this is Dean Winchester. Lea-"_

And that was the last thing Sam heard before his body lost the fight to stay conscious.

* * *

"Sam. You hear me, dude?"

Sam felt as if he were trying to swim through taffy; his limbs were heavy and useless as he struggled to move. The strange thing was, the harder he fought to lift his arms, the harder it was to get his appendages to obey. He squirmed slightly in an attempt to get himself back in control of his body.

"Whoa. Easy, Sammy. Just… Just stay still, alright?"

The words bounced around wildly inside his head as they tried to find purchase somewhere within his gray matter. It was painful, the terms pulsing out of time with the cacophony buried between his ears. Sam groaned loudly screwed his face tightly together as the sensation jostled his brain from the inside out. He squirmed again, trying to get his lethargic limbs to cooperate and to ease the agony.

"Sam. Knock it off!"

It was a harsh bark that made his head throb in tandem with his heart, but Sam felt himself respond without second thought. Tension gushed from his muscles and at once, what could only be described as a pick axe buried in his skull became a little more tolerable. He took in a slow, deep breath and the fog surrounding his mind slowly began to thin.

Heat greeted him first, caressing and sliding comfortingly along his aching limbs. He shivered slightly and realized sluggishly that he was somewhere dry, warm and comfortable. He was definitely _not_ in the movie theater anymore.

Sounds of shifting springs and the undeniable rip of fabric burrowed into Sam's head, distracting him from the comfort the warmth surrounding him had offered. The pain worming it's way through Sam's skull intensified and he began to move again; this time, he was successful.

"Nnngh," Sam groaned as his hand started a sloppy path for his head.

"Nooooo," came the curt, patronizing reply. A coolness engulfed Sam's wrist, simultaneously causing him to tense his muscles in an effort to pull away. He heard the sigh followed by the worry ridden chuckle and Sam felt himself relaxing. He knew those mannerisms, but just how did he…

"D'n?" asked Sam, with a heavy slur to his words, as he struggled with the arduous task of opening his eyes.

It took Sam a moment to realize that he had, in fact, opened his eyes because the darkness that greeted him was no different than the inky blackness that lived behind his lids. A petrified numbness trickled it's way through his system and adrenaline surged through his veins, suddenly putting everything around him into perfect clarity.

"_Holy shit. I'm blind!"_

"Sam? Sammy. C'mon, man. You gotta relax."

A soft glow popped up in front of Sam's eyes and he winced against the new intruder. However, after a few blinks, Sam risked the discomfort and glanced in the general direction that the voice he knew so well had come from.

It was all so familiar - the leather jacket; the hair tussled and gelled just the right way; even the cocky smirk was there.

"Dean," Sam managed at long last.

There was a coarse chuckle and the light vanished just a suddenly as it had appeared. The small snap that accompanied it's disappearance told Sam that Dean had used his cell phone as an impromptu flashlight. A trick the youngest Winchester was infamous for around campus.

Dean's voice cut through Sam's thoughts.

"Heya, Sammy. Long time, no see," the older Winchester brother stated with a strong pat on Sam's knee.

"Ugh," Sam started as he closed his eyes, "What'd you use my head for batting practice or something? And it's Sam."

"Whatever you say, college boy," Dean replied, his voice a little more distant than it had been moment ago. "You had me worried there for a while."

Sam's brow furrowed and he felt the skin along his left temple pull taught at the action. He winced as his mind continued to whir away wildly. Dean had scuttled around, pulling things from the old, wrecked medical kit that both boys had become all too familiar with throughout the years.

"It _was_ you," Sam said a bit shocked.

Dean was back by Sam's head, applying ointment and admiring the few stitches had done as he spoke, "Was me what?"

"You drove by," Sam replied softly and added as an afterthought, "with new plates?"

The thick gauze square was nearly taped in place against Sam's new stitches by the time Dean spoke again.

"You saw that, huh?" Dean asked. The rest of his statement was cut short as his brother attempted to sit up. He placed a hand against Sam's chest to keep him in place as he snarked, "Easy, tiger."

"Shut up," Sam shot back without thought and soon Dean's hands were helping him right himself instead of pinning him to…

…where exactly were they?

"Uh, Dean?"

The Winchesters locked eyes and in that one moment, a million thoughts were exchanged without anything ever needing to be verbalized. However, it was the Winchester wearing the arrogant smirk, softened a bit by genuine concern, that broke the moment first.

"C'mon, Sammy. Don'tcha recognize her?" Dean asked as he awkwardly slipped off his jacket and rolled it into a tight ball. After a few seconds, he propped it against the passenger side door and Sam leaned against it gratefully.

Sam paused for a moment, his eyes trailing the inside of the car he had practically grown up in. He sighed with relief as the overwhelming sensation of safety that the 30-some-odd year old car had to offer crested over him. Even the burning pain of the fresh stitches along the side of his head seemed to dull.

"I gotta say, Sam. Sure took you long enough to get here," Dean started as the familiar jingle of his keys mingled with his voice, "Hell, I thought you'd never show and I'd have to do it all myself. I mean, I did anyways… "

Sam opened his eyes and looked over at Dean who had, by this point, managed to place everything unnecessary into the front seat and was attempting to contort himself into the driver's seat. Obviously, Sam had dozed off for a moment.

"What do you mean it took me forever?"

Sam watched with some amusement as Dean struggled to get himself into the front of the car. However, despite the hilarity of the situation, Sam couldn't help but notice the way his brother's shoulder's stiffened as soon as he was situated. It wasn't until Dean's grip seemed to loosen around the Impala's steering wheel before he white knuckled it in his grasp that Sam realized exactly what must have happened.

"Dean? Have you… Have you been shadowing me?"

"Sam, I just though-"

But Sam wasn't listening anymore. He hoisted himself up, anger flooding his system and overriding the pain and fatigue that had been there moments ago.

"How long?"

"Sammy…"

"I said, 'How long?'"

Seconds ticked by, but the heaviness with each one only made the situation worse. Dean took in a breath and Sam knew he was holding his own when his brother finally spoke.

"About two weeks."

The words stung worse than Sam had anticipated and he swallowed around the lump in his throat a few times before he felt he could actually speak.

"And you didn't think to just… Ask me to hunt?"

A few more seconds passed before Sam couldn't take it anymore. The younger Winchester watched as Dean twisted awkwardly in the driver's seat, as he tried to stop his baby brother from opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

But Sam was already gone, walking down the same rain drenched sidewalk he had trekked earlier in the night. He knew he shouldn't be, especially not with what was probably a concussion wreaking havoc on his brain, but Sam didn't care. He had left his family once already, because they had babied him to the point of embarrassment.

And with that bitter thought in his mind, Sam vowed to never hunt again so long as he lived.

* * *

TrebleMaker


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I'm so sorry that this took me so long to complete! Unfortunately, real life got in the way of my writing... and I lost my muse for a bit. Anyways, here's the final installment of Photographic Memory. Enjoy.

* * *

The steering wheel of the Impala was cold against his skin as he squeezed and released his grasp around it. He gazed straight ahead, vaguely aware of his brother's shadow as it thinned and finally disappeared from sight; however, he was too far gone within his own mind to realize that he should have stopped Sam before he got away.

He had seen this happening to a much lesser degree - the implosion of his younger brother's anger, the hurt at the realization… Unfortunately, the scenarios Dean had foreseen and prepared for had been entirely too cheerful, which was saying a lot considering one scene had ended in a full on brawl.

Dean had forgotten in the short time since his little brother had left that there was another variable in the entire balancing act that was Sam Winchester. Dean hadn't taken into consideration his brother's pride.

He cursed under his breath, turning the ignition as his precious car growled to life. Green eyes flashed in the side mirror before he eased his baby out onto the street, beginning to drive with no particular aim in mind. Heat and anger pulsed within him, his ears burning despite the watery chill that clung to the air. He slowed to a stop beneath a red light, his thoughts meandering with his travel.

The drive had taken him close to two weeks, but that was to be expected considering how many towns he had been forced to stop within. Three in total had been plagued by some kind of monster or a ghost that both terrified people and destroyed innocent lives, but Dean Winchester wasn't the type to just let that slide.

That's where he had made the first mistake of this entire mission, the one that had been deemed high priority by Head Honcho Winchester - Dean had actually made any stops along the way to begin with.

The first town had been a routine salt and burn; in fact, the hardest part of the whole ordeal had turned out to be researching grave locations so that the spirit could be put to rest. He had initially found the site he was looking for rather quickly, the tedious process flying by in hours instead of the days that it sometimes required. Dean had been elated as he retreated from the library, a noticeable bounce to his step that turned more than just a few women's heads as he breezed through. Unfortunately, the records he had found weren't all that up to date and the grave he _thought_ he had found had been relocated.

He had been angry that night. Shovel in one hand, small container of flame igniter in the other, Dean had trudged through the ancient burial ground. He stopped standing on top of the spot that the grave should have been, staring down at the unmarked ground with his teeth clenched tightly. There was nothing there. No headstone or marker. In fact, there wasn't even so much a stick in the ground to mark the spot. That could only mean one thing - Dean needed to start over.

After one solid day had been wasted at the library, not including the hour wasted traipsing through the poorly lit cemetery, Dean lost another as he found himself buried in records at the local Town Hall. Fortunately for him, the town had been small enough that the FBI badge he flashed in their direction had allowed him instant access with absolutely no questions asked. However, the receptionist - as attractive and shapely a woman as she was - had every intent to chat the elder Winchester brother up. Had he not been on a tight time constraint, he might have considered her advances. After all, he was still a man despite his precarious lifestyle.

It was the lead buried within a newspaper clipping that nearly caused him to shout for joy. It was obvious that it had accidentally found it's way into the private archives, because Dean had been certain that he had checked the March 30, 1799 gazette while in the library. The clipping was brief, a local police blotter with a short list of people - those that had been blacklisted by the historic community because of their less than legal activity. However, he knew where to go next and wasted no time getting there - last names were all he needed in a small town like this to hunt down descendents.

Another two days was lost interviewing the locals that were familiar with their town's history after Dean was unable to find anything that so much resembled the names from the paper. Naturally, this meant he often found himself perched awkwardly on an ancient couch in the home of a few elderly citizens that had been praying for some company all week. However, he finally struck gold with Elizabeth, the town "drunk" who, as it turned out, cooked up the whole public drunkenness rumor herself to keep everyone else an arm's length away. She was actually quite the psychic. It was with a polite nod and a tiny map scrawled across a paper napkin that Dean found himself walking down her sidewalk, sliding into the Impala with a soft sigh of relief.

Nearly five days had been wasted within this little town just to discover that the body he had been hunting for had been moved ten feet to the left of it's original location. The salt and burn that happened that night did little to appease the frustration of the entire situation.

From there, the elder Winchester brother had rechecked his maps and road signs, satisfied when he estimated his arrival on to Stamford's campus within a 12 hour window. However, it was his father that called, message clear and concise, that halted Dean's progress once more. He had scrawled down the coordinates on a brown paper napkin stained with coffee, just barely getting a word in to his father before the line went dead. Dean had hesitated for a moment, torn between calling John back and heading out to take care of business. It was the call of duty that won out in the end and Dean once again changed course, driving northeast instead of southwest.

When Dean had arrived in the suburban town, his phone was still off to quell any desire to call his father back. He checked into a typical no-tell motel under whatever alias was imprinted on his MasterCard in shiny, raised lettering. He had just barely made it into the room, door slamming shut with enough force to rattle the doorframe, before he tore his weapons bag open in a desperate search for anything that might prove to be lethal against what the motel receptionist made clear to be the Moth Man.

Dean left the motel room, duffel slung over his shoulder casually as he turned to shut and lock the door to his room behind him. A young couple passed him, smiling and giggling in their own little world, completely unaware of the deadly assortment of hunting knives and firearms that were concealed within Dean's bag. Dean had shook his head with a false smile plastered to his face as they spotted him before he turned to walk towards the Impala parked in the far corner of the lot. He envied them to some degree - envied the innocence and naivety that they possessed, because it was something to which he was no longer privy. The bag landed on the passenger seat with a heavy thud as the weapons clanked against each other. That particular cacophony, however, was drowned out by the sound of the Impala door slamming shut. Jaw set and face firm with determination, Dean started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

His boots were heavy in the soil, grass damp and providing absolutely no traction. Dean let out a heavy sigh, breath clouding the air, while he waited for the moth man to appear. He knew it could happen at almost any time of the day, but he also knew that, like most beasts, the moth man preferred the solitude that night had to offer.

And so he waited. The autumn chill bit into the leather of his jacket - his dad's jacket really. The elder hunter had tossed it callously to his elder son before he had departed. Not a word had been exchanged, but somewhere Dean knew it was a parting gift.

Dean's attention was pulled away from his own thoughts as a dark outline caught his eye over to his left. He crouched low, watching and waiting for the moth man, notorious for being immobile, to make any movement what so ever. He was surprised to see it start lumbering towards him with an unsteady gait. A crooked smirk crawled across his lips, staying for only a fraction of a second before it fell. With a slow, deep breath, Dean raised his sawed off and bellowed.

"Hey! Fugly!"

The yelp of fear that rang through the air sent a jolt of surprise down Dean's spine. For what it was worth, it sounded remarkably weak - remarkably human. With a soft curse, Dean stood up and marched over to the figure. His movements were quick, a sharp tug pulling away the hood covering his target.

A young teenage boy stood there, eyes alight with fear as he slowly raised his hands in surrender. Dean couldn't believe what he was seeing… or how exactly he was going to explain what he was doing stalking after reports of the moth man with a sawed-off in his grasp. Fortunately, the boy was too scared to do much more than stutter and beg for his life. Dean seized the opportunity, jumping into the role of an FBI agent, and scolded the teen. The list of possible infractions grew longer by the second, but the young man before the hunter had stood there, listening to everything and taking responsibility for his actions. A soft ache developed somewhere in Dean's chest as he watched it unfold; he knew somewhere that he had behaved similarly throughout his life.

Dean cleared his throat and turned his gaze, the physical dismissal overshadowed only by his vocal declaration of "scram." He waited a few moments, the soft thuds of the boys feet turning to silence, before he turned and headed back towards the Impala.

After all the trouble, it had turned out to be a false alarm. Dean wasn't oblivious to the fact that could have actually killed some innocent teenager dressed in tattered clothes and costume makeup. In fact, Dean was so painfully aware of what _could_ have happened that he found himself squirming in the driver's seat as he turned the key in the ignition. He could have hit the kid square in the chest, killing on the spot.

The hunter's frustration mounted as he pulled the Impala into gear. It wasn't quite obvious who he was more frustrated with though - the idiotic antics of the child or his own near miss.

It was something that hung over his head as Dean made his final stop and the case had literally come at him completely by accident. It was only after driving for nearly 13 hours that Dean realized he needed to stop. Without thought, Dean pulled off the side of the road, finding a nice little niche for the Impala and himself for the night. He turned, his jaw cracking with a wide yawn, and pulled himself into the backseat.

Sleep washed over him immediately. Little bursts of thought and dreams interwoven with his catatonic state as his body began to recover from his harsh living style. Even as he slept, the first little rumble of sound only managed to sneak his way into his dream world - the noise becoming part of the scenery. However, it wasn't until the loud clattering sound over head ripped through the car that Dean finally woke.

He bolted upright, glancing about the car, his heart hammering away in his chest. He took a few steadying breaths, every nerve in his body screaming that something was amiss. However, as each passing second ticked by, Dean's anxiety ebbed and was replaced by the realization that he needed to relieve himself.

He huffed, rolling his eyes, and popped the passenger door open. His foot barely hit the ground before the thing attacked with a fierce shriek. Dean's breath left him in a violent burst, his back and head bouncing harshly against the Impala's passenger seat. Had he the moment to spare, Dean would've been grateful that he had hit the backseat and not the earth outside. However, Dean found his breath caught in his throat, his back arcing off the surface beneath him as a sharp pain ripped across his chest.

He yelped, kicking fiercely at the thing that had managed to literally sink it's claws into him. There was a hiss, one that sounded like a strange hybrid of feline and reptile. The hunter didn't hesitate. He pulled his silver blade from beneath the seat and swung at the creature. Hot liquid splashed on Dean's hand, but it was the howl that followed that spurred him into action.

He kicked out again, ignoring the hot white flash that ripped across his chest. There was another agonized hiss before Dean managed to shut the door, his skin crawling in the process. He took in a shuddering breath, hefting himself into the front seat as his face screwed tightly against the pain.

Soft pants filled the car as Dean struggled with his trembling limbs. Adrenaline coursed through his system, causing his keys to jangle once they were removed from his pocket. He cursed softly as the thing launched itself against the car, rocking it in a sick mockery of an infant's cradle.

"If you wrecked my car, you son of a bitch…"

Fingers clumsy and slick with blood, Dean slipped the key into the ignition and brought the car to life. He flicked the headlights on, eyes growing wide as he took in the sight of the creature before him. It was covered in fur… And scales… It's eyes were narrow and exotic in shape, looking slightly out of place on what was distinctly a feline head. It's chest was broad and muscular, forefront legs ending in talons like that of a bird of prey.

Dean blinked, the creature baring it's teeth for a moment before it streaked away. The last thing the hunter saw of the creature was it's tail, a gruesome combination of something reptilian in shape with a small plume of dark fur on it's end like a lion. He took in a shaky breath, mind racing as he tried to figure out exactly what had attacked him in the middle of…. wherever the hell he was. His thoughts were well distracted as he began to drive, following the main drag until quite suddenly, he found himself in front of another motel.

He tightly buttoned his leather jacket, grateful for the chill in the air to prevent his actions from looking suspicious. He knew without a doubt that he was bleeding, although to what extent he was still unsure. A smile fixed itself into place and he prayed that it looked exhausted, but not completely unkind or false. His gait was steady as he walked into the main office, the chime on the door jingling merrily despite the hunter's obvious distress. A middle aged woman rubbing at her eyes emerged from the small room behind the counter. Dean blinked dumbly for a moment before he had the sense enough to pull his wallet from his back pocket and pull a card at random. His practiced gaze flicked over the name, making note of initials so that he could scribble the signature across the line when he was asked.

Before he knew it, Dean stood in front of a green door, paint scratched away to show some of the wood beneath it. He wasn't entirely certain how he had managed to smile politely at the elderly couple he had passed as he approached his motel room door. His key was clearly shaking in his hand as he battled to keep his pain and fatigue a secret. They had waved politely as Dean whisked his way inside his room, but they never saw him as he leaned against the door and slid to the floor as his world started to spin wildly around him.

His breaths came to him in pants, limbs heavy as he somehow managed to shut the door and lock it behind him. He closed his eyes, gathering all of the strength he had left in his mind to conquer his physical affliction. His hands rose, working at his jacket until it was open. With a deep breath to calm himself, he glanced down, none too surprised to find his shirt soaked through with blood. He took in a long, deep breath, steadying himself as he leaned forward and slid the leather jacket off; however, it was the next action that he was dreading the most.

With trembling hands, Dean grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt and began to lift the fabric away from his body. Fortunately, the blood was fresh enough that it lifted away relatively easily. Regardless, Dean found himself hissing as the air hit the wound which caused it to burn and sting fiercely. A low growl escaped him as he tossed his ruined shirt haphazardly across the room. The chill in the air began to seep into his skin, which only furthered to agitate the injured man.

He directed his gaze downwards, surveying the damage and was pleasantly surprised to find that although the scratches marring his chest were long, they were relatively narrow and shallow. They would heal on their own provided he took it easy for a couple of days.

His hand trailed over the healing wounds absent mindedly as he continued to drive. He had been right, the wounds _did_ begin to heal after a few days rest. Dean had been rather smart about his decision too, even avoiding John's calls knowing he would be unable to lie to his father.

A deep sigh escaped him, pulling him to the present. Rivulets of rain ran up the windshield, defying the laws of gravity as he drove forward. Their hue was tarnished by the incandescent streetlights dotting the street, casting eerily murky shadows on the seat of the Impala as he drove.

Buildings passed - their forms slightly obscured by a combination of his speed and the rain. He glanced at them casually, more observationally than anything else. He took in another deep breath, gripping the steering wheel tight as he mentally berated himself.

"Should've been more careful," he muttered aloud as he ran a hand down the side of his face. The small amount of stubble there grated against the flesh of his palm before he dropped his hand back to the wheel.

His eyebrows dropped, forming a hard line across his face almost in the exact same instant his jaw clenched. Uncontrolled rage rolled through him.

A loud slap resounded through the car, cutting over the classic rock tune softly floating through the car as Dean's palm made contact with the steering wheel. His voice was tense as he spoke.

"Damn it, Sam."

It was the easiest way for him to deflect the hurt that was quickly surmounting the anger - blaming Sam. If the fault could be pushed onto his little brother, it would mean that he wouldn't have to disappoint John. It would mean that after two weeks of traveling across the country, that Dean hadn't failed entirely.

The Impala growled away down side streets and into the darkness, wasting away some of the night. The more pavement he burned, the more the lick of heated upset that continued to roll through the elder Winchester brother dissipated. By the time he pulled into the parking lot of his dank motel, the inferno of guilt and rage had mellowed into a few brightly glowing embers. His head had cleared a tremendous amount somewhere between the last light and the parking stall his baby now occupied. He took a deep breath, shifting the car into park as he cut the engine; the relief was what he had been hoping for and what he had expected.

The figure sitting hunched against his door, however, was not.

The door creaked open, the noise interweaving with the steadily slowing pounding of the raindrops surrounding him. He pulled himself out slowly, pausing a moment to stretch - or at least he hoped it appeared to be stretching. In all actuality, he was taking a moment to study his surroundings and to assess the figure that began to shiver beside his motel door.

It was tough to distinguish anything, the wisps of steam rising from the pavement obscuring anything too telling. After a few moments of what Dean hoped passed for inconspicuous observation, he was only certain that the figure was distinctly male. The deep throated cough had given him more to go on than anything his keen eyes could have ascertained.

He pulled himself upright, pausing to pull his motel key out of his pocket as he slowly approached. His veiled attempts at keeping a calm exterior were quickly lost as the figure shuddered once more before slowly rising to his feet. A jolt of panic zipped up Dean's spine, the immense height of the figure catching him off guard. He had been expecting a teenager, maybe a runaway that was looking for a warm place to crash for the night. However, it was clear by the sheer height of the man before him that this was not the case.

Dean's steps echoed into the night as he continued to approach, his gaze trained on the door even as he continued to keep a watchful eye on his unexpected visitor. His concentration, no matter how practiced it had become, was soon broken by a voice.

"'B-B-Bout time you sh-showed up-p."

A chill rippled through Dean followed shortly thereafter by the calming warmth of relief. However, only the man standing in front of the door would ever be able to read the micro-expressions as they blossomed across the hunter's face.

Dean cleared his throat before he spoke, "How'd you know I would be here?"

The soft scoff was enough of an answer for Dean, but he kept his face smooth and unreadable, a perfect mask of indifference that would've made John Winchester proud. He continued his approach, any and all apprehension falling away with each step towards his motel door.

"I-It's the only ch-cheap place in town."

Dean nodded curtly, trying to allay the need to fall back into the old routine. The sniffle, however, put old instincts into overdrive and he found himself caving in within a few instants.

"You wanna come in?" Dean asked, looking up into the hazel gaze of his younger brother. His fingers toyed with the overly large plastic keychain, rough with scratches left on the surface from the years of abuse. His fingers gently traced around and around the raised numbers declaring the key to be that that would open room number 14 as he waited somewhat nervously for a response.

Sam nodded, his teeth beginning to chatter violently as the chill settled further into his clothes and skin. It was all Dean needed to see before the key was buried in the lock, turning in a smooth movement as it gave way. He hesitated, glancing at Sam once more before Dean stepped in through the doorway, the heat of the room cocooning him and further easing his tense nerves.

The door shut softly somewhere behind him as he walked over to the kitchenette. He could feel his brother's gaze following him as he shrugged off his worn leather jacket, depositing it onto the chair with a wet plop. Glass bottles jangled on the door of the mini-fridge as Dean withdrew them, deftly twisting the top off of one as he stepped over to Sam. The younger Winchester took the proffered beer without contest. Another soft hiss cut through the air followed shortly thereafter by a small metallic clank as the cap from Dean's beer bottle hit it's mark and fell to the bottom of the small trashcan in the corner.

A stifling silence clung to the air, the need to talk falling further and further to the wayside as ego battled against ego. In the end, it was Dean that swallowed his pride first.

"Why are you here, Sam?"

The question was like a needle, immediately popping the uncomfortable balloon of silence that surrounded the brothers. Dean watched as Sam took a long pull from his beer, gazing thoughtfully at the bottle as he weighed his answer. He fought the urge to smile at the familiarity of it all; it was nice to see that despite his move towards higher education - towards normalcy, Sam hadn't changed all that much.

"Figured my room mates might get suspicious if I showed up with a fresh line of stitches," Sam murmured, avoiding his brother's gaze with a calculated ease.

Dean snorted softly. Although it was believable, the words spilling from Sam's mouth were still a lie and they both knew it. Dean shifted, heading towards the bed closest to the door. He sat upon it, placing his beer on the night stand as Sam took his place on the bed across from him.

"And it's gonna be easier to explain tomorrow?" Dean quipped with a slight shake of his head. He licked his lips, the bitter tang of beer distracting him for a moment before he glanced up at the hulking form of his baby brother. "Why are you here, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," he started, taking another pull off his beer to distract himself before he continued, "And I could ask you the same."

The stalemate hung in the air, constricting the openness that had existed moments before. Dean leaned, reaching for his beer. The chilled glass perspired in his hand, dampening his skin as he carefully mulled over his answer. Surprisingly, the truth won out.

"Dad wanted me to," he answered, his voice softened slightly with uncertainty.

He watched as Sam studied him carefully, no doubt wondering how far he could push without asking too much. Dean raised the bottle to his lips, barely pulling any of the alcohol into his mouth before his brother spoke again.

"Why?" Sam asked, shifting on the bed as his clothing constricted in the heat within the room. He could feel his brother's gaze on him, searching and probing for how much he could handle.

Dean lowered his now empty beer bottle to the nightstand, swallowing down the remnants of the bitter flavor before he spoke, "Said he needed you to help us with a hunt."

He looked up at Sam, wincing as the hurt blossomed across his features even as he tried to stop them. His younger brother looked away, studying the empty corners of the room to occupy himself. However, it was the clenched jaw that gave Dean a bit of warning before Sam spoke.

"So what, Dean? You just packed up and hauled out?," he asked, turning his gaze upon his older brother, "Just like Dad wanted?"

"What was I supposed to do? Tell him to shove it?" Dean retorted, eyebrows lifting as his hands pawed at the denim covering his knees. Suddenly, the scenarios he had envisioned didn't seem so far fetched.

Sam shook his head, mouth agape as he scoffed once more, hands falling heavily onto his lap. His voice was a little louder and a little more forceful as he replied, "No, Dean! You're supposed to tell him that I'm out!"

Dean dropped his gaze for a moment, guilt sliding over him in a greasy rush that caused his skin to crawl. He had forgotten how difficult it could be to deal with Sam.

"Yea, well…" he countered, trailing off as he rubbed a hand across the back of his head. Pressure pressed in on him, his father's words echoing in his mind and Dean found himself trying to decide if it was more difficult to deal with his brother or his father. His thought process was interrupted by Sam speaking.

"So what, Dean? That's it then?" Sam pressed, watching Dean carefully, "I mean, you're not even gonna-"

"What, Sam? Explain?" Dean challenged, green gaze clashing against hazel. A long minute passed, as both Winchester brothers continued the silent battle for dominance. It was Dean that ended the stand off, clearing his throat before he glanced away.

"It was some ancient… cursed… spirit… thing," he stated simply, staring blankly at a grayish stain on the carpet by his feet.

"Wait, what?"

Dean glanced up at Sam, unsurprised to find confusion etched into his features. He inhaled slowly before he spoke, "The thing that got the drop on you. It's some kind of… Indian cursed spirit…"

Green orbs flicked cautiously up towards the younger man perched stiffly on the opposite bed. Dean pushed on, watching as gears turned in Sam's head, "Think the tribe was the Aloha? Alone-"

"The Ohlone people," Sam offered, nodding in comprehension. His mind continued to buzz along, trying to make the connections that he knew Dean had been trying to make himself. His mind grappled for a moment before he found purchase and asked, "So the movie theater?"

"It didn't like the projector," Dean answered, glad that things were slowly sliding back into place.

"Well, yea, I figured that much when I saw…" Sam trailed off, the image of all those haunted faces wandering on the big screen suddenly taking on a much heavier implication in his mind. The words flowed past his lips before he could stop himself, "They were souls?"

Dean nodded once in confirmation, "Yeah."

He stood slowly, walking around the corner of the bed to dig through the duffel sitting on top of the comforter. Dean continued to search, as he spoke, "You know the legend that goes with cameras, Sam. Use that big, college educated brain of yours and figure it out."

With a gentle tug, Dean freed the towel from his duffel, tossing it at Sam before he launched himself onto his bed, bouncing slightly against the old springs before he turned to watch his brother.

"Wait," Sam started, gently rubbing the towel through his hair to dry it, "The… spirit or whatever. It was trapping souls using the film left in the projector?"

Dean grinned, "Knew you'd figure it out, geek boy."

The eye roll Sam tossed to Dean lost it's severity as he smiled, half laughing at the affectionately used insult his brother hurled at him. His voice was a little lighter as he spoke, "Yea, well. I might be a civilian now, but I still know how to put the pieces together, Dean."

"Yea," Dean replied, trying to let the term "civilian" roll off his back with little thought. He cleared his throat, pushing himself up to tug at the comforter as he prepared his bed for the evening. "Maybe you should crash here tonight. You know. Easier than me having to haul your sorry ass back to campus."

Sam nodded and although he'd never admit it, he felt relieved. Sure, Sam had fallen into the routine of living in Palo Alto in the year he'd spent there, but he was constantly aware of his surroundings. Even in sleep, Sam would find himself jerking awake at the slightest noise, poised and ready to defend himself only to find that his room mate had merely turned over in the bed across from him.

"Sam?"

Sam was pulled out of his reverie, surprised to find Dean's boots askew at the end of his bed and his brother slipping beneath the covers. Had he really been daydreaming for that long?

"Yea, Dean?" he asked, tugging his sweat shirt off over his head.

"'M glad you're okay," Dean said, his voice unusually gruff.

Sam smiled gently, tugging off his sneakers without ceremony as he continued to strip the damp clothes from his body. He tugged up the musty motel comforter, taking the blankets with him before he sat on the bed. He shimmied under the layers, situating himself and closing his eyes. This is what he had hoped had brought Dean here - what he had hoped his _father_ had wanted to say. His reply was sincere, "Yeah. Me too."

Within moments, Sam drifted off into the first recuperative sleep since he had arrived at Palo Alto.

* * *

It was the soft click of the door that woke Dean the next morning, his hair mussed with sleep as he bolted upright and took in his surroundings. He stretched, yawning as faint glimmers of sunlight trickled in through the window. He scratched his chest, glancing over to the bed to his right.

…and in that moment, his stomach fell.

The bed there was undisturbed, the blankets and comforter restored to how they were before it's occupants had entered the room. With a heavy sigh, Dean glanced at the door, realizing that it _had_ been the sound of it closing that had woken him.

Begrudgingly, Dean hauled himself out of bed, trying in vane to ignore the empty bed beside him. He afforded himself one final glance. As he scanned the bed, his eyes fell upon a small white scrap sitting on the pillow closest to the night stand. His fingers brushed over it before he gripped it, pulling it up to read it.

_D-_

_I'm sorry, but I can't._

_-S_

Bitterness flooded his mouth, bile rising up the back of his throat as his stomach worked away worriedly. He had failed - his mission, his father…

…his brother.

Dean shrugged, crumpling the note up before tossing it at the trash bin in the corner. It bounced off the rim, falling to the side as the hunter grabbed the towel off the floor and headed for the bathroom. He rehearsed the excuses and story in his mind as the water worked at the tense muscles in his body. He practiced the lies he knew he would need to say to make his father happy.

Little did Dean know that his practice was for naught. As he packed up his room, carefully destroying any evidence that he had ever spent the night there, John Winchester was picking up the lead he had been hoping for since his wife had been stolen from him. With each step Dean took towards the Impala, his father was blending into the woodwork and plotting his next move.

The lies would go unheeded. In fact, they would go unspoken entirely. Dean would make it back to the motel, the room paid for in full for the next couple of nights. However, he wouldn't find his father there. What he would find, was a leather bound book, sets of coordinates and questions with no one there to answer them.

* * *

**TrebleMaker**


End file.
